


It's Only Me

by MoanDiary



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, First Time, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, his REALLY first time, welcome to my masturbation triptych
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: It’s a sad thing, an unheard-of thing, for the Devil to sleep alone.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Mazikeen/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 208





	It's Only Me

From a safe distance, unseen, he curiously observes the walking, speaking creatures roaming the verdant plains. He is, of course, one of God’s angels and is under strict orders not to interfere with the workings of Father’s creation. But Samael has never been one to resist his impulses, and these animals are so new and different from all the others. He watches a man and a woman speaking to each other in their strange, inelegant tongue. He can’t understand the words as such, but there’s something teasing and provocative in it. She’s smiling slyly, and the man has a predatory look in his eye. 

The man suddenly leaps forward and catches her with his mouth and for a moment Samael is appalled—do the odd beasts _eat_ each other? But the woman isn’t in pain, if anything she seems to be enjoying it as he presses his mouth and tongue and teeth against hers. She pulls the man down into the pile of furs and skins inside her shelter and— _oh_. Samael knows the mechanics of how the various beasts of the Earth reproduce, but something about seeing these two creatures who look so much like himself engage in it...he feels a hot flush all throughout his body and looks down to find something very curious, indeed. 

He tentatively reaches down to touch his strangely swollen penis. He hisses at the sensation and it seems to twitch of its own volition. It’s intense, like an electric shock, but not quite painful. Rather than avoid it, he wants to do it again. He slides his fingers along the firm shaft, up to the head, where his foreskin has pulled back and the tip is leaking some kind of fluid. He’d never really understood the purpose of the appendage, but questioning Father’s design is frowned upon, so he has never voiced his questions. The male human before him is in a similar state, and he’s plunging his repeatedly into the corresponding void in the woman’s body. The movement is crass and animalistic but there’s something exquisite, transcendent almost, in the bliss contorting each of the humans’ faces.

Unconsciously, his fingers wrap around himself and tighten, starting a slow up-and-down movement. It causes a blazing wave of pleasure to ripple through him and he closes his eyes, groaning. Behind his eyelids he sees the woman and the man, but instead of staring at each other with that predatory excitement, they’re staring at him, desiring him. He slides himself into the woman, and the man presses into him. He’s a conduit for their desire, taking his own pleasure as they find theirs in him. 

His eyes flutter open again and return to the couple before him. The man is sucking and nipping at the woman’s breasts, her nipples hard and prominent under his attentions. She cups his head and looks down at him tenderly as his hips continue to thrust between her legs. She begins to make the sweetest, most sensual noise, throwing her head back and writhing as their movements accelerate. Samael feels his body respond accordingly and curses the friction preventing him from moving his hand as rapidly as he wishes. He casts about for something and, in frustration, ends up spitting into his hand, coupling that with the moisture dripping from his tip to allow his hand to move smoothly up and down his length. There’s something building in him, a fire that he’s stoking, mirroring the steady crescendo happening before him.

The humans’ work seems to reach some kind of culmination and they both tense, motions becoming inelegant and jerky, before they eventually subside back onto the bedding. Samael shuts his eyes again and pulls at himself faster and faster, chasing something now. He feels himself running towards a precipice and—and—

An exquisite wave crashes over him. He thinks he cries out, but can barely hear it over the rushing in his head. His legs tremble and give out and he falls to his knees, supplicating himself before a new, strange divinity. Never before has he felt an ecstasy quite like this, not in the joy of setting stars alight, or even the rapture of Father’s divine love. He imagines he is the first of his siblings to know it, and he is immediately jealous of it. This thing? This is _his_.

* * *

“Do you want to go again?” he asks hopefully, propping his head up on an elbow and regarding his right-hand demon as she luxuriates, nude, in the grand ebony bed of the king of Hell.

She laughs, then yawns. “No. You’re free to, though.”

“What, by myself?” He scoffs, indignant.

Wanking in Hell is always a challenge. It’s a plane of existence that fundamentally abhors pleasure, drains it from a body hungrily. Whatever scraps one might manage to hold onto are fleeting and ultimately unfulfilling. The demons seem to revel in this, and make sex a violent act that’s more like combat than anything else. Sex-related injuries, maimings, and deaths are not uncommon. They plumb the depths of depravity in a way that even the most creative and devious humans haven’t managed. For a long while, he thought himself above them, more a creature of the more sublime, soft, easy pleasures of the earthly plane. Not to mention that there weren’t any demons he’d trust within biting distance of his nether bits.

But then the Lilim came. Ah, the Lilim! Beauty and depravity twisted together into an exquisite whole. And none were more beautiful or more depraved than his Mazikeen. She had won his trust through many hard-fought battles, had borne countless injuries to protect him. Had even been willing to turn her blades on her own siblings to maintain his dominion over Hell. And then one day, after a particularly violent skirmish, the heady rush of combat still pumping through their veins, she’d fallen to her knees before him and taken him into her mouth. 

Just thinking about that day not all that long ago—or maybe thousands of years ago (the way centuries twist and tangle and unravel in Hell renders any measure of time largely irrelevant)—makes him harden. She’s half-asleep beside him, one leg under his dark silken sheets and the rest of her gloriously nude. He looks at her fixedly and remembers.

> _He was exhausted, covered in blood—some was his own, much more belonged to members of a rogue faction of wyrm-riders who’d claimed dominion over the Great Fire Sea. The demons and their wyrms were no more. He collapsed gratefully into his throne, resting his bloodied sword against his thigh rather than take the effort to clean and sheath it. The throne room was empty at the moment except for him and Maze, equally blood-soaked. She spun her blades aimlessly, pacing about like a caged panther, chest still heaving with battlelust._
> 
> _“Something on your mind, Mazikeen?” he asked, amused._
> 
> _“The way you struck that red wyrm from the air,” she breathed. “It was...magnificent.”_
> 
> _“You didn’t do such a bad job yourself.” He smiled fondly. “I saw you gut those two sniveling traitors in a single strike. Very impressive work, Maze.”_
> 
> _She strode towards him and kneeled before the steps of the dais in a practiced motion. “Fighting beside you, my king, it’s like nothing else,” her gaze was heated and ardent in that way it sometimes got, a way that he understood but didn’t quite know how to act on._
> 
> _To the humans, he was just a handsome stranger who drew out their desires, fulfilled them, and disappeared. But while Mazikeen’s desires were clear at the moment, he had no capacity to draw them out at will. No place to flee if he got in over his head. The two of them were together for the long haul. Choosing to do this would change their relationship permanently._
> 
> _But he was weak, has always been weak, when it came to his desires. And she was so lovely and fierce, half-monstrous and half-beautiful, just like him. He put one hand tenderly against the twisted side of her face and nodded, desire rising in him to match her own. She slid her hands up his thighs and to the fastenings on his armor._

Lucifer brushes his knuckles lightly up and down his cock, remembering her deft fingers grazing him through his leathers as she unlaced them, her peering up at him with dark, hooded eyes.

> _He was already half-hard by the time she freed him, and a few rough strokes from her calloused warrior’s hands were enough to bring him fully erect._
> 
> _She gazed at his length hungrily, almost feral. “Lucifer,” she murmured, and put him into her mouth. His fingers slid from her cheek into her hair, tangling in her tight braid and holding on for dear life. She was_ astoundingly _good at this._

He wraps a hand around himself and begins to stroke, gaze drifting over her face. He’s thankfully still slick from their previous exertions. She notices him moving and her eyes slide open slightly, glinting in the dim firelight as she watches him. He can already feel Hell’s inexorable pull on his pleasure, numbing each touch that felt good just a moment ago, forcing him to grip tighter, move faster. He thinks of Mazikeen kneeling before him, worshipful, and it’s not enough.

His memory shifts, remembering a time more recent. 

> _He had just returned, abruptly and unexpectedly, from a trip to Earth. He wasn’t sure what had gotten Amenadiel’s dress in a twist, but he’d plucked Lucifer from a pile of eager bodies, unsated, and dropped him back at the gates of Hell._
> 
> _He returned to his palace keyed-up and fuming, ordering everyone out. Maze, of course, stayed, unfazed by his rage._
> 
> _“What do you need?” she asked, gaze calculating as she peered into his eyes. He shook his head, frustrated and unable to articulate what exactly he wanted._
> 
> _“Come with me,” she commanded, grabbing him by the arm and leading him to his chambers. As soon as the doors closed, she grabbed his wrist and deftly twisted it behind his back, pinning him face down on his bed and straddling him._
> 
> _“The king of Hell,” she hissed in his ear. “Does not pout.”_
> 
> _There was a wet noise as she sucked two fingers into her mouth, and then they were pressing into him ungently._
> 
> _“He does not whine,” she twisted them and scissored them, stretching him open._
> 
> _“He takes what he wants,” she growled, pressing into his prostate, hard. He gasped and surged back against her._
> 
> _She fucked him brutally, mercilessly, uncompromisingly, whispering promises of what the king of Hell should do, who he should be, in his ear. He ground against the bed and thought about himself as she saw him, how he would like to be seen, although perhaps not as he was. Powerful and unflappable. Brutal. Hardened to pain and disappointment, to guilt and the pathetic longing for acceptance, for forgiveness._

He presses a finger of his free hand into his opening, teasing himself, the sensation sending a shock of pleasure through him. Maze shifts up onto an elbow to watch him, half a smirk on her face.

Another memory comes to him, one last one that often works for him.

> _They were fucking like demons, their lust driven to the point of violence and beyond. Lucifer had one hand around Maze’s throat and the other gripping his headboard for support. Her ankles were up over his shoulders and her hips a good six inches off the bed, nails drawing blood from where they were sunk into his ass. Her eyes fixed on his, a challenge within them, a smile on her face. No sound but her reedy breathing, his intermittent groans, and the sound of flesh slapping together._
> 
> _She came violently, in a rush, a noise of victory on her lips. Her whole body like a taut wire, clenching around him brutally. Every part of her was strong, every part of her could match him. She pulled him along with her forcibly. He was helpless to resist._

He comes cursing, hand now painfully tight around himself, wringing out what meager pleasure he can find. It’s hard-won, as it always is here, and never as satisfying as he hopes it will be. He relaxes bonelessly onto the sheets with a sigh.

Mazikeen watches him, smirking, a laugh on her lips.

* * *

It’s a sad thing, an unheard-of thing, for the Devil to sleep alone.

He wakes, as he always does these past few weeks, in a large and very cold bed, to thoughts of the Detective. Where she is, what she’s doing, what she thinks of him. The monster who loves her. His texts pile up, read but unanswered. All his unspoken questions sit unanswered, too.

His body is apparently unconcerned with his despair and his longing, or maybe has chosen to interpret it in a different way. He often wakes with an insistent erection these days, likely a result of his uncommon abstinence.

He trudges to his bathroom and into the shower, faced with a choice: hot water or cold. He’s picked cold for weeks, unable to stomach the idea of embracing one of the few simple joys left to him when he certainly deserves nothing joyful or simple. But perhaps just a little bit of good old-fashioned masturbation won’t hurt. Maybe it will take the edge off his anxiety for a while, at least.

He turns the water on to just the right temperature and sighs, muscles relaxing under the warm spray. He places one hand against the marble tile and wraps the other around himself, casting about for something safe and pleasant. He thinks about a particularly enthusiastic young lady he spent the night with a few months ago, who whispered the most desperately vanilla desires into his ear like cherished secrets, and he saw the path before him as clear as day, leapfrogging from one desire to the next until she was tied up and begging for things she never knew she wanted, things he was happy to provide.

“Lucifer,” she moaned. Her brown hair fades to blonde. “Lucifer!” Chastising, exasperated, with a hint of irrepressible affection. Blue eyes crinkled with a suppressed smile.

His cock twitches noticeably in his hand and he hisses as pleasure surges through him.

He halts his movements and drags his thoughts away. That won’t do at all.

He casts his mind far away, back a couple thousand years, give or take. The handsome young scion of a family of Roman patricians who fell into his bed after a particularly opulent day-long feast. Drunk on wine and each other, they wrestled lustily among the pillows until Lucifer triumphed, extracting whispered confessions and admissions, coating both of them with olive oil and sliding into him with a pleased hum. The man was pliant beneath him, moaning and whimpering, pushing back against him.

“I want to keep you,” the man breathed, lacing his fingers with Lucifer’s.

“I can’t stay,” he replied. “I’m the lord of the underworld.”

“Not to me,” she whispered, turning her head to catch his mouth in a heated kiss, pushing back into him. His hand slides from her throat down to her breasts, still pert and firm and beautiful all these years after she stepped out of that hot tub.

He whimpers and stills his hand again, gripping the base off his cock to stave off the orgasm that threatens. He slams the fist of his free hand against the tile, frustrated, feeling the stone fracture under the assault. He steadies his breathing for a long moment, water streaming down his face and dripping from his nose and lips and chin. He can stop now, or he can continue. If he continues, he will think about her. He’s an expert in both desire and denial. This ache needs her because it belongs to her. All his desire is hers now.

He touches himself again, slowly, gently. Imagines her hand on him, hesitant and careful, because he needs her to be. He’s fragile around her, in so many ways. Everything in him is raw and exposed, all his masks and armor stripped away. Before her he’s that young angel again, wondering and afraid of what he doesn’t understand. Unable to resist touching the flame, eating the forbidden fruit.

She draws him with her down onto her bed. _Hers_ , not his—humble and worn and intimate—her inner sanctum. Her golden hair spreads across her faded floral pillowcase and he bows to worship her. She’s mute in his fantasy, he can’t even imagine what she would say, maybe is afraid to imagine. Her body speaks volumes, gentle and tender and marked with evidence of her pain and her strength. He lavishes attention on every scar, every stretch mark, on the faint yellow bruise from where she banged her arm accidentally on a door frame and spent a solid thirty seconds cursing like a grade school teacher, breaking out every innocuous non-expletive she’s been training Trixie to use. He remembers watching her with a helpless grin on his face and feeling his heart swell to impossible proportions inside his chest.

She threads her fingers through his hair and, looking into his eyes, pulls him to her. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her and then buries his face in her neck when he buries himself in her wet, silken warmth. It’s heavenly, a homecoming better than any glorious ascension. She makes a little pleased mewl in his ear once he’s fully seated inside her and he thrusts helplessly, strokes long and smooth.

“Lucifer,” she whispers, and he is undone. He’s coming and coming as the hot water pounds down on his back and his shoulders. His knees tremble with the force of it. It’s so, so sweet.

But soon the illusion fades. Chloe is gone, perhaps forever. 

He is alone, as he always has been.


End file.
